


The Empty House

by nomave



Category: due South
Genre: Gen, The Adventure of the Empty House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomave/pseuds/nomave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is an alternative version of Ray Vecchio’s return, so for the sake of the tale, it pretends 'Call of the Wild' didn’t happen. It shamelessly plagiarises Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes story 'The Empty House' (it’s the one where Holmes returns after apparently falling over Reichenbach Falls), so anyone unfamiliar with that might like to read it first (try http://www.citsoft.com/holmes/return/empty.house.txt if you don’t have a copy of  Doyle’s collected works handy)  or else watch the Jeremy Brett version, which is quite faithful to the original.  The story will still make sense if you haven’t read it, but you will appreciate it more if you do, as the following is basically a Due South version of this story, written from Fraser’s point of view (for once in the ‘Watson’ role).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty House

It was spring, and all of Chicago was engrossed in the biggest news story for years – the murder of mob boss Ronaldo Adairi, in the most unusual and inexplicable circumstances.

My close connection with the 27th Precinct of the Chicago Police Department had interested me deeply in the crimes of this city. My unofficial partnership with Detective Ray Vecchio had allowed me to assist in solving some of those crimes, and even after his sudden disappearance to go undercover with the mob, I had remained involved through Ray’s substitute – Stanley Raymond Kowalski.

No such cases had come along recently, however, that intrigued me as much as the murder of Adairi. As I read the evidence of the inquest that had led to a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown, I realised that there were points about the business that would have benefit from Ray Vechhio’s – the real Ray Vecchio’s – knowledge of the subject. All day, as I went about the Consulate business, I turned the case over in my mind, and found no explanation which appeared to be adequate. 

Adairi had been living in style with his widowed mother and his sister. He moved easily in the local Mafia society, and whilst it was not that unusual for mob bosses to end up dead, the form of Adairi’s death was unusual. He had been fond of gambling, and had been playing poker with his associates on the evening of his death. The evidence of those who played with him (who, as gambling for money is illegal in Illinois, had been granted immunity from prosecution in the interest of trying to solve the crime) showed that there had been a fairly even fall of the cards. Adairi may have lost $500, but no more. His fortune was considerable and such a loss could not in any was affect him. He usually rose from the table a winner and had actually won as much as $10,000 in a sitting some weeks before. 

On the evening of the crime he returned home exactly at ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with relations. His cook heard him enter his study on the second floor, and then no sound was heard from the room until 11:20, when his mother and sister returned. Wishing to say goodnight to her son, his mother had attempted to enter his room, but found that the door was locked on the inside, and no answer could be obtained to their cries and knocking. Help was obtained and the door forced. The mob boss was found lying near his desk. His head had been horribly mutilated by an expanded revolver bullet, but no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table lay piles of money and figures upon a sheet of paper with the names of his regular gambling opponents. The police decided that he had been endeavouring to work out his losses and winnings.

A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the case more complex. In the first place no reason could be given as to why the mob boss should have fastened the door upon the inside in his own home. There was the possibility that the murderer had done this and then escaped by the window, but the drop was at least six metres and a bed of flowers in full bloom lay beneath. They showed no sign of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks on the strip of grass that separated the house from the road. Apparently, therefore, it was the mob boss himself who had fastened the door. But how did he die? Nobody could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. Suppose a man had fired through the window – it would indeed be a remarkable shot who could inflict so deadly a wound with a revolver, and none of the neighbours had heard a shot. And yet there was the dead man, and there was the revolver bullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and so inflicted a wound which must have caused instant death. Such were the circumstances of the Adairi mystery, which were further complicated by an unusual (for a mob family) absence of motive.

All day I turned the facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit upon some theory which could reconcile them, but I made little progress. In the evening I took Diefenbaker for his walk, and strolled across town, finding myself in front of the Adairi house.

I passed up and down the street, trying to see how the crime could have been done. I was paying less attention than I ought to where I was going and, to my horror, accidentally walked into an elderly, bearded, man, his shoulders hunched with osteoporosis, and knocked several boxes of doughnuts that he was carrying out of his hands. Diefenbaker became quite excited, which further agitated the man. I endeavoured to apologise for the accident as I collected the boxes, but it was evident that he considered that I had ruined the foodstuffs he had been carrying, even though none of the cakes had escaped from their boxes (much to the disappointment of Diefenbaker). With a snarl of contempt the man turned on his heel and I saw his curved back and white sideburns disappear around the corner. Accustomed as I now was to the occasional rudeness of Americans, I still felt slightly hurt, as I had apologised. With a sigh I attracted Diefenbaker’s attention and resumed my attentions to the crime scene.

My observations of the house did little to clear up the problem of the murder. The window of the mob boss’s study was entirely inaccessible, since there was no water pipe or vine or anything which could have assisted an active man in climbing the wall. 

More puzzled than ever, I retraced my steps to the Consulate. I had not been in my office five minutes when Constable Turnbull entered to say that a person wished to see me. To my astonishment, it was none other than the hunched old man I had inadvertently bumped into on Adairi’s street. His face was mostly concealed by a frame of white hair and a bushy beard & eyebrows, but he had a long nose and his eyes squinted at me, as if he were short sighted. His precious boxes of doughnuts, half a dozen of them, were held in his arms.

“You’re surprised to see me, Constable,” he said, in a strange, croaking voice.

I acknowledged that I was.

“Well, I had an attack of conscience, Constable, and I guessed that you worked at the Consulate and came after you. I thought to myself, ‘I’ll just go in and see that nice mountie, and tell him that I was rude earlier. There was no harm done, and I was grateful to him for picking up my doughnuts.’”

“You make too much of it,” said I. 

“Maybe you would like some doughnuts yourself. Here’s some iced chocolate ones, or cinnamon, or some with sprinkles. Your wolf looks like he might be hungry, doesn’t he?”

I moved my head to look at Diefenbaker, sitting behind me. Dief had a puzzled expression on his lupine face, which I paused to try and interpret. When I turned back to my visitor, Ray Vecchio – the real Ray Vecchio – was standing smiling at me across my desk. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it would seem that I must have fainted. Certainly, a grey mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared, I found my tie loosened and collar button undone, and Ray was bending over my chair, into which I had collapsed, looking anxious.

“I’m so sorry, Benny,” said the well-remembered voice, “I had no idea you’d react like that. Are you okay?”

I gripped him by the arm, still not quite believing he was present, “Ray? Is it really you? Have you finished your undercover assignment?”

“Wait a moment,” Ray said, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay to discuss this? I gave you a bad shock by being overly dramatic just now.”

“I assure you I am perfectly alright, but I can hardly believe my eyes. Great Scott, to think that you of all people should be standing in my office!” Again I gripped him by the sleeve and felt the thin arm beneath it. He felt real enough. “I’m overjoyed to see you, Ray. Please sit down and tell me when you got back and what you’ve been doing.”

Ray returned to the other side of the desk and sat opposite me. He was dressed in the seedy coat of the old man, but the rest of his disguise lay in a pile of white hair and doughnut boxes on the table. Ray looked even thinner than of old, and there was a look on his face which told me that his life recently had been quite stressful.

“I’m so glad to stretch, Fraser!” he said, as he raised his arms and eased the cramped muscles, “It’s no joke for someone as tall as me to take a foot off my height for hours on end,” he paused, “I need your help, Benny – there’s a hard and dangerous night’s work in front of us if you’re willing to come with me?”

“When you like and where you like.” I promised.

“Just like the old days.” Ray smiled.

“Is your undercover job finished?”

“Almost. I’m just waiting to hear they’ve rounded up the last of Langoustini’s associates before I can get back to my old life – I’m still in hiding at the moment.”

“Hence the disguise.”

Ray spent the next hour telling me what he had been doing in his undercover work. He told a remarkable story, a narrative that would have been utterly incredible to me had it not been my friend Ray Vecchio telling the tale, with the same tall, spare figure, and the keen features I had been beginning to think I would never see again.

“I have a job for us tonight which, if we can pull it off, will solve a murder.” 

I asked him to tell me more.

“You’ll see,” Ray smiled, “We have two years to catch up on – what adventures have you got up to with my stand-in Benny? Let’s talk about that until half-past nine, when we start our new adventure.”

It was indeed like old times when I found myself seated beside him in a car (I wondered if anyone had told him about his beloved Buick), Diefenbaker in the back, feeling the thrill of a new case to solve. Ray was stern and silent. As the glare of the street lights flashed upon his features, I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips compressed. I didn’t know who we were trying to hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal Chicago, but I was assured from Ray’s bearing that this was a grave situation. 

Our route through Chicago was an odd one. Ray’s knowledge of the back streets of the city was extraordinary and on this occasion we drove through a network of alleys, narrow streets and the like, the very existence of which I had never known, although I thought I had explored the city thoroughly. We emerged at last into a small road lined with old gloomy houses. We left the car and walked swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden gate into a deserted garden, and then opened, with a key, the back door of a house. We entered together and Ray closed it behind us.

The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an empty house. The bare flooring creaked and cracked as we walked over it and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which the wallpaper was hanging in ribbons. Ray’s thin fingers closed around my wrist and led me forward down a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the front door. Ray turned abruptly right and we found ourselves in a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the centre from the light of street outside. There was no street light near, and the window was covered with dust, so that we could only just discern each other’s features. My companion put his hand on my shoulder, and his lips close to my ear.

“Do you know where we are?” he whispered.

“Surely that is your house?” I answered, staring through the dim window.

“Exactly. We are in the abandoned house opposite the Vecchio residence.”

“But why are we here Ray?”

“Because there’s a great view of that picturesque home. Go a bit closer to the window Benny, but take care nobody can see you, and then look up at the second floor window. Let’s see if I can surprise you again.”

I crept forward and looked across at the familiar windows. As my eyes fell on the second floor left window I gave a gasp and nearly cried out in amazement. The blind was down but the light in the room was on. The shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of the head, the shoulders and the sharpness of the features. The face was turned half round, and in silhouette. It was a perfect reproduction of Ray Vecchio. I was so amazed I threw out my hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me. He was shaking with silent laughter.

“Well?” he managed.

“Great Scott!” I cried, “It’s marvellous!”

“It really is like me, isn’t it?”

“I would be prepared to swear it was you.”

“The credit goes to the Feds. Their forensics lab spent some time on it. It’s a bust in wax. The rest I arranged myself this afternoon.”

“But why, Ray?”

“Because Benny, I had the strongest possible reason for wishing certain people to think I was there when I was really elsewhere.”

“You thought your house was being watched? By whom?”

“By the mob. They finally figured out I wasn’t the real Armando Langoustini. The Feds pulled me out, but the mafia followed me back to Chicago. Sooner or later they believed I’d go home so they’ve watched the house continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive.”

“How do you know?”

“I recognised one of them when I glanced out the window. It’s not him we want though – it’s the man behind him – Langoustini’s right hand man, the one who finally blew my cover.”

In silence we stood together in the darkness and watched the street outside. Ray was silent and motionless, but I could tell he remained alert and that his eyes were fixed intently on the stream of passers by.

I especially noticed two men who appeared to be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house further up the street. I tried to draw my companion’s attention to them, but he waved me away and continued to start into the street. It was evident to me that he was becoming uneasy, tapping his fingers on the wall, and that his plans were not working out as he’d hoped. At last, as midnight approached and the street gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark to him, when I raised my eyes to the lighted window and again experienced surprise.

“Ray, the shadow has moved.” I commented. It was no longer the profile but the back of the head that was turned towards us.

“Have you become less observant since I’ve been away, Fraser? I’m not so stupid as to erect an obvious dummy and expect the mob to be deceived by it. We’ve been in the room for two hours and Frannie has made some change in the figure every quarter hour. She works it from the front so her shadow isn’t seen. The rest of the family is at my aunt’s house.” 

I had been paying so much attention to the people in the street that I had failed to look at the Vecchio window, so hadn’t seen the movement of the dummy. I felt slightly foolish, and was about to apologise to Ray, when I heard him drew his breath sharply and in the dim light I saw his head thrown forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention. All was still and dark, save for the brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figure outlined upon its centre. Ray pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room and held up a warning hand for silence.

After a moment, I could hear a slow stealthy sound from the back of the house in which we were concealed. A door opened and shut and an instant later steps crept down the passage – steps that were meant to be silent, but which reverberated harshly through the empty house. Ray crouched back against the wall, and I did the same. Ray’s hand closed around the handle of his gun. Peering through the gloom, I saw the outline of a man in the open doorway. He stood for an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the room. He was within three metres of us, this sinister figure, and I had braced myself to meet his spring, before I realised that he had no idea of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the window, and very softly and noiselessly raised it about twenty centimetres. As he sank to the level of this opening the light of the street fell upon his face. He was an elderly man with a long projecting nose, a high, bald forehead and a moustache. His face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his hand he carried what appeared to be a wooden walking stick, but as he laid it down on the floor it gave a metallic clang. 

From the pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky object, and he busied himself in some task which ended with a loud, sharp click, as if a spring or bolt had fallen into place. Still kneeling on the floor, he bent forward and threw all his weight and strength upon some lever, with the result there came a long, whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful click. He straightened himself then and I saw that what he held in his hand was a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He opened it at the breech, put something in, and snapped the breech -block. Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open window and I saw his head droop over the stock and his eyes gleam as he peered along the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he hugged the butt to his shoulder, and saw that amazing target , the black silhouette on the yellow ground, standing clean at the end of his foresight. For an instant he was rigid and motionless, then his finger tightened on the trigger. There was a strange, loud whiz and then the silvery tinkle of broken glass. At that instant Ray sprang forward onto the marksman’s back and hurled him flat on his face. He was up again in a moment and with convulsive strength had turned and seized Ray by the throat, but I struck him on the back of his head with the butt of the weapon and he dropped again to the floor. I fell upon him and held him as Ray called for backup. 

There was a clatter of running feet upon the pavement and two uniformed police officers and Detective Huey rushed through the front entrance and into the room.

“That you, Huey?” Ray asked.

“Yeah, Vecchio. It’s good to see you back.”

We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with an officer on either side of him. One of them read him his rights. Ray stepped up to the window, closed it, and dropped the blinds. Huey turned on the lights and I was able to have a good look at our prisoner.

It was a sinister face that was turned towards us. His eyes were fixed on Ray’s face with an expression in which hatred and amazement were equally blended, “You bastard,” he muttered, “You clever, devious bastard.”

Ray chuckled with satisfaction, “Let me introduce you to Sebastian Morano, mob hitman for the Iguana family.” The prisoner glared at my friend, but Ray continued, “You surprised me. I didn’t think you’d use this house and window. I thought you’d make the hit from the street where my colleague Huey and friends were waiting,” Ray shrugged, “But apart from that, it’s all gone as I expected.” He sounded satisfied with the night’s events.

Ray picked up the powerful airgun from the floor and examined the mechanism. “This is unique,” he said, “makes no noise and has tremendous power. Get ballistics to take a look at it Huey, and the bullets that fit it.”

“We’ll take care of it.” Huey promised, as the whole party moved towards the door, “Anything you want to say?” the detective asked Morano. 

“Only to ask what you’ll be charging me with.”

“The attempted murder of Ray Vecchio.” Huey answered.

“No, no,” Ray corrected, “I don’t need to be mentioned at all. Right, Fraser?”

I had already worked out the implications of the arrest, “I believe that Detective Vecchio has handed you the murderer of Ronaldo Adairi, with an expanding bullet from an airgun, through the open window of his house.”

Ray beamed, “That’s right, Benny. Knew you’d work it out,” he slapped me on the back, “And now, Fraser, if you can endure the draught from a broken window, I think we should go and check out the damage at home.”

We went across the road and found two occupants of Ray’s room, one Francesca Vecchio, who unfortunately decided to attach herself to my arm as soon as we entered, much to my discomfort, and the other the strange dummy which had played so important a part in the evening’s events. It was a wax-coloured model of my friend, so well done that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a small table with an old shirt of Ray’s draped around it.

“I hope you took care moving that thing, Frannie.” Ray said.

She rolled her eyes, “Yeah, I can follow instructions, you know! I crawled on my knees like you told me.”

“It’s okay, Frannie. You did good. Did you see where the bullet went?”

“Yeah, went right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. Ma’s going to be upset about the chip in the paint,” Ray’s sister reluctantly, but to my immense relief, turned her attention away from me, and picked up a small piece of metal from the bedside table, “Here it is. I picked it up from the carpet.”

Ray held the bullet out to me, “A soft bullet, as you can see. Who’d think it was fired from an airgun?” 

Ray next inspected the shattered forehead of the bust. “That Morano sure is a good shot.” He commented, “Right in the middle of the back of the head and straight through the brain,” Ray paused, then asked, “Had you heard of him?”

“No Ray, I had not.”

“He was a soldier originally, but then he began to go wrong. He was sought out by the mob, and became the Iguana family’s chief hitman, but nobody could ever prove anything against him, and we couldn’t incriminate him even when the gang was broken up. So long as he was free and knew my real identity my life would have been in danger, and sooner or later his chance to kill me would have come. I couldn’t shoot him on sight without evidence, but I knew I’d eventually get him. Then came the death of Adairi. I was certain Morano had done it. The bullets alone will incriminate him. I let him see me this morning and was sure he’d make an attempt to get me out of the way at once, and would use the weapon for the purpose. I left him this excellent target in the window, and warned the 27th they might be needed – you of course spotted their presence in the street immediately. I took up what I though was a good observation post. Never thought he’d choose it for his attack. Anything else I need to explain?”

“God no, you’ve gone on for long enough.” Frannie yawned, as she sat on the bed filing her nails.

“Yes Ray,” said I, “What was Morano’s motive for killing Adairi?”

“Morano and Adairi had between them won a lot of money, and I think Adairi had discovered Morano was cheating, confronted him, and threatened to tell everyone. Morano murdered Adairi, who at the time was working out his winnings. He probably locked the door so his family wouldn’t know what he was doing.”

“That all sounds quite logical, Ray.”

“It’ll be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile, Morano won’t trouble us any more. The airgun will go into the Chicago PD evidence store and Ray Vecchio will be free to resume his life in Chicago.” 

THE END


End file.
